Slivers of Silver
by bedlamandbroomsticks
Summary: A collection of one-shots, vingettes, and drabbles in the Johnny Tremain universe. For a class assignment.
1. Beginnings

Disclamer: Not me, I wouldn't even want own this.

Author's Note: I wrote this for class, but don't think I liked the book...

Johnny Tremain Oneshots/ Drabbles

Beginnings

Johnny looked around the shop haughtily, as if he was too good for it. He was not the meek, hopeful apprentice that defined all the poor boy start ups these days. That much was certain. Johnny folded him arms, waiting impatiently for Mr. Lapham to finish up in the back, and come and accept him already. The boy was small for the age of twelve, with skinny legs clad in patched breeches, and ribs which you could practically see poking through the white shirt.

He flinched as a figure came running into the shop from a door he couldn't see, followed by another one, slightly bigger. The door slammed behind them and the little blonde creature stopped, and stared up at him with giant eyes. Johnny stepped back, annoyed by the interruption in his solitude.

"Are you Johnnyyyy Tremaiiiiin?" The blond little animal asked. It—She was a small child with a running nose, a grimy face, and an aura of blond hair.

"Isannah, that's not nice!" The other girl scolded. She straightened, took a look at Johnny's clothes, and thought again. Johnny did not think her attractive. She was thin, and her clothes were too patchy (not that his were any better), and she had the griminess that the young poor always had about them on Long Wharf, no matter how hard they scrubbed.

She pursed her lips, and put her hands on her hips. "You _are_ Johnny, aren't you?"

Johnny did not like the way she looked at him. "Yea'," He glowered back at her.

"Well, you're too skinny to look like anything," The girl returned rudely, and then introduced herself. "I'm Cilla. This here's Isannah." Cilla introduced her sniveling little sister with a glowing pride that made Johnny want to throw up.

Johnny said nothing, just stared insolently, and then turned around, ignoring them. He stared harder at the back of the shop where Mr. Lapham was taking his sweet time. Johnny hoped that Cilla and Isannah were not part of Mr. Lapham's household. Unfortunately, the sensible part of his brain knew they were his nieces or some close relation. Four years with _them_.

Isannah ducked back into his vision. "It's very rude not to reply, y'know," She whined at him. Johnny rolled his eyes and turned away another degree. Cilla now reprimanded him.

"You won't get much around here if you're all stuck-up. Grandfather is very worshipful about the Lord and being humble." She sounded annoyed.

Good, Johnny thought, be annoyed. His ears flamed red with anger and frustration. If the stupid girls would just go away and stop annoying him, like Isannah was doing now, skipping and reciting catechism.

"Johnny's mad, Johnny's mad," Cilla sweetly sang. Johnny turned around and glared at her as Isannah started up the chant again. She smiled back at him mockingly.

It would be lying if someone said this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.


	2. Ends

Disclamer: Not me, I wouldn't even want to own this.

Author's Note: I wrote this for class, but don't think I liked the book...

Ends

"Cilla!" Johnny, now called John to anyone who respected him or his fists, bellowed. He waited. No one came.

"Cilla!" Johnny yelled again. No trim little wife came rushing in through the door. "CILLA!"

Now she did come rushing in, glaring at Johnny with pins in her mouth and a needle and thread in her hands. She took the pins out her mouth and gripped them in her hand like daggers.

"What, I'm busy!" Cilla snapped, and raised an eyebrow dangerously. Johnny paid no attention, but held up his nicest pair breeches, pointing to the hem.

"They're ruined! Stained, ripped and torn!" He panicked, flapping the breeches at his wife. "I've got the signing today, what am I to do? I can't go looking like a ragamuffin."

This display of feminine worry over his clothes would have made Cilla smirk if she hadn't been so irritable. A small toddler waddled into the office, half dressed in petticoats. "Papa?" The girl inquired, sucking on her thumb.

"Not now," Her father told her sharply. She ran out of the room. "Cilla, please!" He entreated angrily.

"Fine, but I'm not fixing it again," She grabbed them from his hands, accidentally-on-purpose ripping it even more.

"CILLA TREMAIN!" Johnny's eyes went wide with horror.

She shrugged and smirked at him. "We'll just have to make ends meet, won't we?"

Johnny showed up to the signing of the Constitution in plain breeches and red ears.


	3. Lunch

Disclamer: Not me.

Lunch

Johnny set out the cheese and bread, then turned and grabbed a knife from the drawer behind him. The drawer closed with a snap, and Johnny set down the knife down to find he had taken out two. Johnny stared at the extra knife as if it was a piece of futuristic weaponry. He pushed it to the side and sat down, looking sullen.

Johnny reached for the bread, and stopped. There was one whole loaf, and Johnny had always eaten only half. He looked at the chair across from him. It was empty. His eyes rose to the ladder emitting from the open trapdoor in the ceiling. There was no one in the shop.

Johnny pushed back his chair and got his messenger bag. Suddenly, he wasn't hungry anymore.


	4. Breakfast

Disclamer: Not me.

Breakfast

Johnny Tremain hated breakfast.

It wasn't the food. Cilla always cooked well, and he loved sausage.

It wasn't how early. He was always up earlier than anyone else in the first place.

But the Lord in heaven and the Devil in hell, he hated breakfast. Cilla always said she knew exactly why and smirked at him whenever he scowled in the morning, but Johnny didn't want to think about why. Just the mention of breakfast brought a glower to his face.

In the Tremain household before noon, there wasn't a single Bible in sight.

And don't even start on Leviticus.


	5. Red

Disclamer: Not me.

Red

All the red on the hill.

From soldiers, from blood. From the stained jackets, the immaculate British uniforms only a darker red.

The British poured like it, so much of them. Johnny wondered if they were actually a stream of red. There was red everywhere he looked.

Red symbolized the British.

Red symbolized the war.

Red symbolized the sounds of guns going off in your ears and killing grown men—killing people who had wives and children and mothers and fathers.

The world was coated in red. Slick and salty and dripping.

He raised his hands.

They were red, too.


	6. Snow

Disclamer: Not me.

Snow

Johnny liked snow. He hadn't liked it when he was young and his mother was alive, because it was cold and wet. But when he had a warm home, he secretly thought the snow was pleasing. The white blankets of it made the world transformed into something else. It was so incredibly pure. (Not that he could mention this to anyone, being all manly.)

But now, the snow was tainted. And every red and brown print against the dazzling white made Johnny want to throw down his gun, and go where there would never be any snow.


	7. Tears

Disclamer: Not me.

Tear

Cilla had stood with the wives and daughters who waved off the men for the war. She had stood with them time again, when any soldiers came back. She had watched their tears, their screams, their sorrow when they found out who had died. Cilla wondered if she would be one of those women.

Now Johnny was to come home.

The first of the boats came in. Cilla held her breath.

Tears started to slip down her cheeks as a coffin was carried ashore.

The sun glinted off of one of the coffin bearers.

He had a widow's peak.

Cilla was glad she cried today.


	8. Hands

Disclamer: Not me.

Hands

Johnny was polishing Colonel Smith's saddle for Dove _again_, cursing the lazy laggard when he noticed. Dove was snoring on the hay, as usual whenever Johnny 'helped' clean. His hands were folded over his ample stomach, but Johnny didn't pay attention the rather comical pose. Dove's hands stood out in sharp relief. Johnny stared at the pillowy, white hands, noticing the obvious veining that was blue in such white digits. He had no doubt if he touched them, they would be as cold as the harbor water in winter, and soft as a kitten's fur. It was odd that his hands represented the owner so well.

This revelation started a ream of pictures through his mind of other's hands. Rab's were also like him—long, languid, and dark. He never made any motion with them that was unnecessary, never drummed his fingers on the table, and when he was excited, they made quick, staccato movements. Cilla's—Johnny turned a little pink, but forced it down—Cilla's were small, with smooth skin, and hard palms that glided like silk.

In contrast to her small, delicate appearing hands, John thought of Paul Revere's hands. Those remarkable objects created miracles. They were large, with calluses on the palms, and had a firm, trusting grip whenever Johnny and Mr. Revere shook hands. They were noble hands, Johnny decided. When he was thinking of noble, Johnny's mind immediately jumped to Lavinia Lyte. His spine tingled, and he thought of those snow white, thin, and strange hands. They looked like they were carved from marble.

Johnny's movements on oiling the saddle slowed as he unwillingly thought of something else. He was suddenly aware of every single texture he felt in his own hands. Johnny raised a hand to his face, biting his lip. It was callused from Goblin, with broad fingers, and his thumb…Johnny narrowed his eyes at it.

It wasn't actually that awful, he realized with surprise. Skin with faded scars stretched over it, imprisoning it to his palm. But…it didn't look like a scarred stump. It had been so long since Johnny had actually looked at that malady. Johnny swallowed, feeling extremely relieved as he continued on polishing.


	9. Diamond

Disclamer: Not me.

Diamond

"Johnny!"

"Yes?"

"Look at that ring in Mr. Revere's shop. Isn't it lovely?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"You didn't look."

"Alright, I've looked, there. It's wonderful."

"Do you like it?"

"I just said I did, Cilla."

"…Anything else you'd like to say about it?"

"Such as…?"

"Augh!" Cilla took her arm away from Johnny's and stormed down the wharf in a burst of fury. Johnny stared after her, perplexed at what had caused such an outburst. One minute they had been strolling down the wharf, completely at peace and discussing things like how the Silsbees were, making no mention of Rab, and what tactics they thought would be best for defending Boston Harbor, in case the British had decided to come back, though the war was over, and the next minute Cilla was storming off in a huff.

Cilla herself was completely frustrated with Johnny. She wove in between people on the walk, moving as quickly as she could without seeming unladylike. When Cilla had first actually verbalized that she preferred Johnny over Rab, he stared at her looking completely shocked, then relieved. Before Rab, it had always been known that she and Johnny were going to get married. But it had been three years since Cilla had told Johnny she liked the name Cilla Tremain, and he had done _nothing_. Nothing. Walking and working in his smugness that they were going to get married, no need to ask her properly. He hadn't even considered getting her a ring yet!

She paused by John Hancock's shop, leaning on the wood wall to wait for Johnny who was fast chasing after her.

"Cilla," He panted. "Cilla, whatever in the world possessed you like that?" She could see his annoyance at having to run after her on such a hot day. Cilla paused, gathering her breath and temper.

"Johnny Lyte Tremain, are we going to get married or not?" She pushed herself off of the shop front and now stood with hands on hips.

Johnny looked puzzled. "Well, of course we are—"

"No, we aren't," Cilla interrupted coolly. "Do you want to know why? Because _you haven't asked me._"

He stared at her, completely bewildered. "But I swear I did—"

"No you haven't," Cilla told him coldly.

"Ah."

She rolled her eyes, and turned away.

"Cilla, wait. Wait here please, I'll be right back." He turned her around and made a pleading motion, then was gone. Cilla watched him dash down the street until she lost sight of him. A few minutes passed.

She was looking to the harbor, watching the men on the ships unloading crates of something when she felt another tap on her shoulder. Cilla turned. There was Johnny in the dust, with his only clean pair of breeches getting dirty. Offering her the ring they saw in Paul Revere's shop.

Cilla slipped it on and smiled beatifically at Johnny. He got up, dusted off his knees, and offered her his arm.

"I still think we should keep a regiment at each end of the harbor, with a few cannons. They could switch out from time to time, of course…"


	10. Friends

Disclamer: Not me.

Friends

Rab speared the hunk of cheese on the tip of his knife, and stared at it for a few seconds before popping it into his mouth and chewing. As he leisurely chewed the cheese, he looked out the window. Outside, Goblin bucked frantically as a brown and blond blur clung desperately to the back. Rab watched the dilemma with interest as Johnny was finally unseated. Rab couldn't see Johnny's face as he dragged himself out of the muck, but Rab was quite sure it was one of shock. Goblin probably hadn't unseated Johnny in weeks.

Rab's mouth quirked in a smile, and he returned to his bread, ripping off a piece and chewing it meditatively, thinking back to a few weeks ago, when Johnny was out delivering papers and he had been eating lunch just like now. The bell above the door tinkled as the door opened, and Cilla stepped into the shop. Rab had not known much about Cilla except what Johnny had told him, and that was not much. But judging by the way Johnny stumbled over his words and couldn't think of how to describe her, he probably had some feelings.

Rab did not say anything to Cilla as she entered, just nodded a hello. She nodded back, twisting her fingers as she glanced around the shop, which was visibly empty. Cilla almost sagged with relief, but caught herself under Rab's watchful eyes.

Cilla approached the table and pulled out the chair, the scraping of the wooden legs against the flagstones painfully loud. Rab was the first to speak. "What may I help you with?" He asked a little formally.

"Do you want the truth?" Cilla didn't offer another option.

"Preferably," Rab commented dryly.

Cilla remained quiet for another minute. Rab did not rush her, just stared at her, leisurely eating bread and cheese.

"Johnny seems to like me."

"That's pretty well observed."

Cilla blushed. "I want to know if it's true."

Ah. Rab saw where this was going. "I will happily make him jealous." He gave her a half bow for his chair, flourishing his knife. Cilla looked extremely happy, and now, mischievous.

"I can't thank you enough," Cilla told him, taking off her bonnet and hanging it on her chair.

Rab smiled. "What else are friends for?"

"Which friends?"

"Good question. Next question."


End file.
